


Seven Shots of Bourbon

by StripySock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Canon Compliant, F/F, Femslash, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:11:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StripySock/pseuds/StripySock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ellen's working at her father's hunting bar Simon's when Mary pays a visit. Things develop between them in an unexpected way. </p><p> </p><p>Ellen is seventeen in this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Shots of Bourbon

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to cjlxx for the beta. All mistakes that remain are my own.

If there is one thing in the world Ellen hates (aside from her daddy’s drinking) it's wiping down tables. The clingy dampness of a wet cloth, the way you never really get it clean,and the fact that it feels like you’re only cleaning up dirt with more dirt, she hates it all. She'll swap it for any other job, mopping out the john included, helping heave the barrels of beer, smiling at the creepy dude in the corner 'cause as her daddy says you keep the money sweet, and he's on his fifth shot. But if you want to eat, you work (and that's another of his sayings) and because, someday, all this is hers; she does.

Tonight is a jeans and a sweatshirt kind of night because though she likes the tips when she wears a skirt, she hates the looks she gets; like she's some cross between a succubus and a highschool girl. She can feel the stares, hear the come-ons and she gets tired of getting her fists dirty. _One day,_ she promises herself. _One day when you run this place, it'll have a three strikes and you're out rule._ They need this, more than she needs them. Not so many places a man can have a drink, buy a gun, and talk shop after all. She's no fool though; she keeps herself strong, meets their looks with unafraid eyes. Some of them are animals, they've hunted too long, killed too much. You can see it in the way they move. She's pretty good at spotting them. They drink too much or not at all and when they look at her, she stares them down with a silent warning. Look but don't ever touch. Then she smiles and offers them another round.

Simon's has always been a hunter's bar, she had grown up in here, she knows what’s out there; just as she knows she wants no part in it. Not unless she had no other choice. Mom had warned her with hushed words, dancing around her father's missing leg, his clawed face and helpless silent anger but she hadn't needed a warning, she wasn't stupid. She knows what you become.

Simons are hunters down to their bone. Bred and raised with a gun in their hand, hatred in their blood. Della had been it for her generation. Della with her red rinsed hair and cocky swagger, the warmth of her hugs had had when she lifted Ellen from the ground with them. She remembers Della ten years older than Ellen, in her leather jacket and baggy jeans, bringing her home an ogre's tooth from Europe, stringing it on a cord and tying it round Ellen's neck with a grin. She remembers Della, dead before she was twenty five.

She's still rinsing tables, collecting glasses and delivering drinks. She’s running on auto-pilot, just going through the motions without thinking about it now, because tonight is busy and she just doesn’t care.

Simon’s is full and ain't that something. She knows things, hears things as hushed voices talk about something big that's gone down. She's unsurprised that they've flocked here to talk about it. Back at the bar, her daddy's face is tight and grim and she knows it's mostly the news; but she can read the pain underneath it. Don't do no good to be sweet with him though, you gotta tell him to take a hike and rest himself. He hates what he calls slitheringness more than he hates impertinence. The latter gets a snarl, the former a diatribe.

So she slides on up to him. "Why don't you take a rest?" she suggests, an order in disguise. "Jamie wants a word with you." That's not a lie; Jamie tugged her close a minute ago and told her to get her pa.

He snorts, rubs another glass clean, throws the dirty tea-towel over his shoulder and pulls another beer. "He can wait," he says gruffly.

She hides her impatience behind a smile and waits. The more he stands like that, the worse his other leg will be tonight and it sure as hell won't be Jamie that takes the brunt. Her silent thoughts are answered; he pours two more beers and carries them over.

She was only a baby when the accident happened. Though she doesn't remember her dad with two legs, she remembers how much he struggled as she grew up- struggled for normalcy. She wonders why he wanted to, when normalcy to him now was standing behind a bar, talking about what he once did.

She likes being behind the bar better, likes chatting as she serves up drinks, hearing the news and passing it on. Behind the bar the flirting bounces off her; making her impervious to it all. She gets to talk to them face to face that way, not bending to snag glasses from the other end of the table, conscious all the while of how they stare.

She's under the counter searching for the salted peanuts she knows her mother brought in, when something out of the usual gets her attention. Leaning on the bar is someone who to Ellen's honed senses sends mixed messages. A part of her takes in the blond hair, slim body and pretty features. She doesn't look like a hunter, not on the outside; or at least not like any hunter Ellen's ever met. She's met plenty of female hunters in the past, they usually work alone and they dress the part in practical clothing. This woman is dressed almost for a night out, like she's stumbled in here on her way to a date, just for a drink to calm her nerves. Her eyes though are the eyes of a hunter, Ellen knows it. She’s on instant alert, working in this bar, hell just living this life in general have taught her that unusual things are rarely good things.

Ellen leans over the bar casually. This woman could just be in here, wrong place, wrong time, in a bar on her way to nowhere from nowhere. She's already attracting attention, a wolf-whistle or two and a jerkish comment from the man drinking alone at the bar. She ignores them though, like she can't even hear them and focuses straight on Ellen.

"A shot of Jack please," she requests. Her voice is low and warm, a voice made for whispering.

Ellen nods, pours her a shot and slides it over. She watches the blonde tilt back her head and knock it down. "Anything I can help you with?" she asks, because her first instinct was right. This woman belongs.

"I'm looking for a Dick Simon," the woman says. "I'm here to collect something."

Ellen jerks her thumb at where her dad is sitting with Jamie, conversing in low intense whispers. "He's right there, best wait 'til he's done though if you've got time."

The woman smiles, sits on a barstool. "Time I have," she says, and leans forward to offer her hand. "Mary Campbell."

Ellen shakes it, lets the name filter through her mind. _Campbell_. "No relation to Samuel Campbell?" she says.

"Daughter," says Mary and makes a little face. Ellen wonders how old she is, thinks she can't be much older than her. Maybe eighteen or nineteen to Ellen's seventeen.

She remembers to volunteer her own name. "I'm Ellen Simon," she says with a smile. "Another shot?"

Mary hesitates. "I have to drive back tonight," she says.

Ellen turns a direct look on her. "If you have time, you have time. Daddy ain't going to be done talking to him for some time. ‘Less I can help you with what you're after."

"You currently in possession of a Golem amulet?" Mary asks. There's a hint of teasing in her voice that Ellen refuses to be riled with. It's true her dad doesn't share secrets and she doesn't know exactly what he has stuffed away; but no need to tell a stranger that.

"Maybe I do," she says instead and pours another shot for Mary, along with one for herself. There'd be hell to pay if her parents saw her. It doesn't make sense that she's old enough to work behind the bar, but not old enough to drink. But her mom watches her with a tight unhappy face if she catches her sneaking some and her father; well he ain't too happy with it either though she thinks that might be more to do with stock conservation than any moral objection. She grins at Mary after it. "Maybe I don't."

Mary smiles back at her and there's a dangerous edge to her smile that Ellen can't quite pin down, can't quite understand but that makes the blood thump in her veins. "Well let's hope he does."

"You on a hunt?" Ellen asks and she's truly curious. There's something off about it all.

"No," says Mary briefly, her voice firm. "I don't hunt."

And that there is strange enough in itself because to hear the tales, Campbell’s have always been hunters, every man and woman from as far back as most can remember. But working behind a bar, teaches you a lot and Ellen knows not to push- not now. Too early for that, no matter how curious she might be.

She's busy for a few minutes, pouring more beers, more bourbon; thankful most people just push back their glasses and wait for a refill. Still gonna be a lot of washing up later. When she looks back though, Mary's still there, watching her with a funny half-smile. Ellen had half thought she might join one of the other hunters at their tables. If Mary was an ounce of the hunter Ellen thought she might be, she must have spotted that this was all there was to Ellen.

She raises her eyebrows as she reaches for the shot of bourbon. "Hold up your glass," she says, and Mary does, strong firm fingers tightening around the clear container tilting it towards her a little and Ellen feels her breath catch a little. _Well that’s new._

When she was fifteen she lost her virginity - to a hunter of course. She'd been the freak in school, huddled herself close and tight because no-one wanted strangers getting too close. When she'd been young, she'd been ashamed of how different her daddy was to other daddies and now that she was older; she was still ashamed, just not of him. Besides highschool boys were soft and fragile in a way she couldn't describe, couldn't imagine getting something she wanted from them.

It's not like she regrets it, it wasn't a big deal. But in some ways it's shaped what she's looking for. It all feels wrong if she looks at it too deeply, at why hunters turn her on when really they shouldn't, so she tries not to. It's the first time it's spilled over into a woman though, she's never really thought about it before. Still, there's something about Mary's hands, about the elegant strength of them that sends flutters through her at the thought of having them a mite closer. She's only one shot of Jack down so it's not the alcohol, it's just Mary.

She's been polishing the glass in her hand for too long and when looks up and meets Mary’s eyes she hopes the thoughts she's thinking aren't bleeding through onto her face. She's not sure how successful she is, because there's a look of mischief on Mary's face; a quickly tucked away smile as she drinks, tilts her head back far enough that Ellen can admire the line of her throat. All of a sudden it clicks in place for Ellen. This is a game, like anything else. This is a game she can play if she wants to, though she usually doesn't.

The night's getting later, the bar's getting louder and it's lucky that the sheriff knows not to mess with Simon's on a night like tonight. She doesn't think they'd take kindly to time being called. At some point as she's adding up totals and pouring more shots, she notices that Mary's wiping tables with a clear sure hand and that no-one is messing with her. Not at all. No-one tries to tug her down onto their knee or stares at her ass too long and she wonders how Mary broadcasts so clear that she's not to be messed with. Ellen had to make it public, had to do it more than once and she's filled with a slightly reluctant envy.

Mary saunters back in record time and tosses the cloth down. "I think that's earned a drink," she says, and her smile brings an answering one to Ellen's face.

"I don't know," she says and she's teasing in her turn. "Drinks are damn expensive round here."

Mary grins, leans forward like she thinks the sight of the slight curve of her breasts just over the edge of her top is really going to change Ellen's mind. She's got a pair of her own thanks. Or at least so she thinks, until her mouth dries a little and she realises she feels like she’s leching. So that's what the fuss is about. _You learn something new every day, she thinks._

She drags her eyes fast away that she doesn't think it was incredibly noticeable, meets Mary's and reckons she might have failed on that front. It doesn't look like Mary minds at all though; she just leans back and sweeps her hair into a ponytail. She looked good with it down, soft blond curls around her face but she looks even better with it up. Ellen's not exactly Miss Teen mag so she can't put it into words, but it suits her, suits the angles of her face.

It takes her a moment to notice that Mary said something, until her brain catches up with the words. "One more drink, and I'll talk to your daddy."

This drink is longer and slower, she takes her time with it, doesn't say anything as Ellen bustles on the other side of the bar. The attention has shifted off them entirely now, one of the men is telling a story that nearly everyone in the place has gathered round to listen to. Ellen’s heard it four times tonight now, but they’re listening like its gold dust. Men and women right up close, her father in the thick of it, face closed off and distant like he thinks they can’t see how much he longs for it. Mary glances at them as well.

“I’ll never marry a hunter,” Mary says, and the words come out the blue, sad and a little bitter like they're nothing to do with the drink, but the end of a long thought.

Ellen is more than a little surprised. The people she knows who live in the life, rarely marry out of it. They rarely marry at all of course, but when they do it’s generally not to someone who doesn’t know what’s out there. It’s too difficult to explain everything. You sound mad and what normal person wouldn’t run when you’d told them what you’ve done, what you’ve killed and what could be coming after you still. She doesn’t say anything, lets Mary continue if she wants to. She’s been working behind the bar since she was fifteen, she knows as well as any bartender; that sometimes people just need to talk. Mary doesn’t seem to want to talk though, just shakes her head and sighs like there's nothing more to be said.

Eventually the hunter gets off his soapbox, and people start to break up and scatter again. There’ll be more than one person sleeping in the bar tonight she bets. She spots her dad limping back to the bar and nods at him for Mary. “There he is,” she says. “I’ll give you two a moment.” She picks up the cloth and goes back to the work that’s never really finished. She can’t help glancing at them, though she can’t hear a word they’re saying. There’s a brief flurry of conversation and then her father calls her back over, tells her that Mary’s here to pick up something for her father but it won’t be ready until morning.

From the way he says it, Ellen knows he’d forgotten she was coming by and that he’s probably racking his brains about where he put the damn thing. He does that a lot, puts things somewhere safe, so safe he forgets.

Then he adds that Mary’s staying the night and Ellen’s eyes flicker straight to Mary. On a night like this, this many hunters looking for someplace to stay there’s no way she’s getting the spare room. She’ll get lumped in with Ellen on a blow-up mattress. Something shivers in her belly at the thought; a hard knot of excitement, worry and apprehension sitting there and she’s not even certain why.

There’s been nothing but a few looks between them really, but the tension is there, like she’s fifteen all over again and doing this for the first time. Which really, she is in one sense. There’s a little bit of humour there as well. Her mother would never let her take a man up to her room but she won't blink an eye at Mary.

They stick around for a while longer because her dad can do with a hand, but things are winding down now and it’s not too long before she snags a fifth of Jack (payment, she firmly tells her conscience, she’s worked damn hard tonight), a couple of glasses and takes Mary upstairs. It sounds sexier in her imagination than it actually is because taking Mary upstairs means taking her to the room Ellen’s had since she’s a baby. It’s messy as shit and she tries to kick the clothes into hiding but that’s not going to work.

Instead she flops down and pours them a healthy shot each, feels Dutch courage trickling down her throat and washing away the little bits of doubt. _What if Mary hadn’t meant anything at all in the bar? What if she thought Ellen was unattractive, or didn’t want to fuck someone with no experience?_  They talk in subdued whispers even though they’re on the other side of the house from her parents, but this still feels naughty in a way she can’t pinpoint, a curling excitement resting in her belly like they're making time before the inevitable.

It's talk with no purpose, like they need it to fill in the gaps before what's going to happen actually happens, Mary's funny and interesting, and after they've thoroughly dissected who they'd most like to see live in concert, she's inexplicably interested in the minutiae of Ellen's life which is just puzzling because of how boring it is. "You mean you've never hunted?" she asks, and there's something too tense, thread-tight in her voice.

"Never," Ellen confirms, feels the ugly flush creep up her neck. On some level Mary must despise her, coming from a hunting family and not feeling that urge to hunt. She's not scared, she can imagine scenarios in which she would hunt; if people she loved got hurt, or she was needed on the field. But it's not the driving motivator of her life. Mary doesn't look like she despises her though, she looks like she envies her, and her eyes are momentarily full of naked longing that Ellen can't understand.

"Do you want to?"

She can't help but feel like something hangs on the answer, and she answers the only way she can; honestly. "Not really. I've seen what it's done to those around me. If I had to, I would, I'm pretty sure of that though." It seems like it's the right answer though, the tension's gone like the switch has been flipped and the casual flirty woman from the bar is back, necking her drink, looking at Ellen through lowered eyelashes

And then easy as anything Mary is taking off her top, the soft purple satinet slipping across her as smooth as silk; like this was something she did every day, takes off her clothes in front of other women. For a moment Ellen doesn’t feel seventeen; she feels like she’s thirteen again and in the school locker-room trying not to look at anyone else around her. Then she pulls herself together, it’s nothing like the same thing. She can’t help but look at Mary, drink in the sight of her skin, the contrast of her black bra against it. Warmth suffuses her body at the ease and carelessness Mary displays. Her blond hair is down again, tumbling around her shoulders and Ellen sucks in a breath, imagining the softness against her hands until she remembers she doesn’t have to just imagine. She leans forward, feels the fine tremble in her body running through her and runs a hand through that hair, leans forward to kiss Mary.

It’s slow at first, not quite tender but adjacent to it and she runs her hands up Mary’s smooth back feeling a long scar ridge crossing it. She shivers into the kiss and now Mary is cupping her face, tugging her forward and deeper into it; more aggressive now, biting her lip and soothing the hurt with soft sucks. It’s not until she presses right up close that Ellen realises she still has all her clothes on. That seems wrong to her, and she pulls off her sweatshirt with clumsy hands, tugs it off over her head and presses back close to Mary. There’s two layers of lace between them now, the sharp scratch of it rasping against her breasts, a little prickle of sensation flooding her skin. Under her hands, Mary is closer to the hunters she’s had, than to any high school boy. She’s soft and smooth on the surface, and underneath toughened muscle and sharp bones, strength distilled. Her hands are firm and cool against skin that feels too hot.

If she’d imagined it, she’d have imagined another girl to be gentler but Mary is the opposite; there is nothing shy or retiring or tentative about her kisses. They bruise her lips, leaving her craving more, and she can barely hear the sounds they’re making above the pounding in her ears. She’s wet in her jeans now, just from this kiss, from the press of Mary’s breasts against her own and those hands smoothing down her back. She fumbles for the buttons as Mary goes for her neck, breathes hot and wet and deep against her. Mary bites down lightly, as though she wants to bite down hard. Like the lace, the teeth prickle against Ellen and she almost hisses at the sensation. Her own jeans are undone and she’s sliding a hand up Mary’s skirt, up her powerful thighs to brush almost hesitantly against her underwear. The scratch of matching lace meets her hand, the dampness mirroring her own state of arousal. Mary makes a sound against her neck, like she wants this, _needs it_ , and takes Ellen’s hand and shoves it firmly against her.

This she knows how to do, it’s like touching herself. It’s not quite the same of course; Mary doesn’t like it exactly like she does. She likes it slower and deeper it seems, small circles against her, teasing her wet until she can’t take it and yanks off the panties completely, tosses them aside and lets Ellen go to town on her.

It feels amazing, hotter than almost anything she’s ever done, sliding two fingers into Mary, pressing deep and hearing her bite back deep breaths, feeling her shake against her, strong thighs pressing closer trapping her hand. Her thumb is pressing near Mary’s swollen clit now, direct pressure too much for her to take, fingers wet with how much Mary’s getting off on this, her own underwear slowly soaking through from the need she’s feeling. She’s concentrating too much on this to focus on anything else and when Mary finds her mouth again it’s almost a surprise.

Ellen fumbles at her own jeans, tugs them down as best as she can, grateful she’d kicked off her shoes earlier. She feels Mary push her backwards and she goes down easily. Mary joins her seconds later, spreading her legs with strong hands; bending and licking at her through the thin cotton and Ellen squirms with the sensation. She likes it harder, rougher usually but this; this is working for her as Mary’s tongue presses against her through the fabric until she pushes upwards for more contact.

Mary wriggles two fingers under the material strokes lightly, insistently against her and Ellen needs more; needs it right now and attempts tries with trembling hands to push her panties down, almost knees Mary in the head with her efforts and they both laugh breathless, amused at the situation; the two of them on a bed too small. Mary dips her head and goes back to work, spreads her wide and hot, lets her tongue push in and Ellen’s never felt anything like this before. She’s had men go down on her and it’s been good, but this feels unique in her experience. She can’t prevent herself from biting down on her hand trying not to make too much noise as Mary takes her apart, drives her to the edge and makes her come. Waves of feeling are rolling through her body until she feels too small to take it all and just lets herself loose for a moment.

When she comes back to herself, she’s still shivery and over-sensitised. Even the slightest brush of fingers over her clit is too much for her to bear, still twitching with the aftershock. She takes a deep breath, forcing air into lungs that feel like they’ve forgotten how to breathe, and turns back to Mary who is still wet, still on edge; looking at her with hungry darkened eyes. She slides her hand around her back, undoes her bra and lets her breasts spill out into her hands, watches in fascination as Mary arches against her. She teases them with her hands, then replaces her hands with her mouth, begins to suck and mouth them. She lets one hand drift back down to her pussy and then push back in with two fingers until Mary is helplessly coming, clenching tight around her, small shivers coursing through her body, and Ellen can feel every one of them.

It's sort of weird afterwards, the bed's too small and pressed together they're just a little too warm. Ellen likes it though, likes the press of their limbs close, likes the faint sweet perfume that clings to Mary's hair. After a little bit of kicking and manoeuvring they settle finally, Ellen's head on Mary's chest, her arm thrown loosely around her, and it's _nice._ She thinks Mary falls asleep after only a few minutes, her breathing is soft and regular against Ellen, but she lies there a little why longer, her own breath slowing, enjoying the closeness. Mary shifts almost imperceptibly, her hand drifting over Ellen's skin. "I'm glad you're not planning on hunting," she says, and it's hardly audible.

Ellen nestles a little closer since after all it's just for tonight, but the thought flickers across her mind that the future is unknown and she shivers all of a sudden like a goose has found her grave.

The next morning it's a little awkward collecting their clothes up, and Ellen's not sure Mary ever manages to find her underwear. They kiss good morning, but there's no time for anything else, and all too soon Mary is getting into her pickup truck with the Golem amulet she'd come to collect in the first place, thanking the Simon family politely for their hospitality, extending an invitation for them to come visit real soon if they'd like, an invitation Ellen knows they won't take up. They don't go anywhere. She saves a special smile for Ellen at the last, waves as she leaves, and it feels a little odd knowing she won't be back.

 _Hunters,_ thinks Ellen without upset. _They're all the same._


End file.
